Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

Losing a regular flow of shillings to a dog must have been a heavy cross for these unfortunate men to bear.

“I had such a frightening experience last week,” Mrs. Pumphrey continued. “I was sure I would have to call you out. Poor little Tricki—he went completely crackerdog!”

I mentally lined this up with flop-bott among the new canine diseases and asked for more information.

“It was awful. I was terrified. The gardener was throwing rings for Tricki—you know he does this for half an hour every day.” I had witnessed this spectacle several times. Hodgkin, a dour, bent old Yorkshireman who looked as though he hated all dogs and Tricki in particular, had to go out on the lawn every day and throw little rubber rings over and over again. Tricki bounded after them and brought them back, barking madly till the process was repeated. The bitter lines on the old man’s face deepened as the game progressed. His lips moved continually, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying.

Mrs. Pumphrey went on: “Well, he was playing his game, and he does adore it so, when suddenly, without warning, he went crackerdog. He forgot all about his rings and began to run around in circles, barking and yelping in such a strange way. Then he fell over on his side and lay like a little dead thing. Do you know, Mr. Herriot, I really thought he was dead, he lay so perfectly still. And what hurt me most was that Hodgkin began to laugh. He has been with me for twenty-four years and I have never even seen him smile, and yet, when he looked down at that still form, he broke into a queer, high-pitched cackle. It was horrid. I was just going to rush to the telephone when Tricki got up and walked away—he seemed perfectly normal.”

Hysteria, I thought, brought on by wrong feeding and over-excitement. I put down my glass and fixed Mrs. Pumphrey with a severe glare. “Now look, this is just what I was talking about. If you persist in feeding all that fancy rubbish to Tricki you are going to ruin his health. You really must get him on to a sensible dog diet of one or, at the most, two small meals a day of meat and brown bread or a little biscuit And nothing in between.”

Mrs. Pumphrey shrank into her chair, a picture of abject guilt. “Oh, please don’t speak to me like that. I do try to give him the right things, but it is so difficult. When he begs for his little titbits, I can’t refuse him.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

But I was unrelenting. “All right Mrs. Pumphrey, it’s up to you, but I warn you that if you go on as you are doing, Tricki will go crackerdog more and more often.”

I left the cosy haven with reluctance, pausing on the gravelled drive to look back at Mrs. Pumphrey waving and Tricki, as always, standing against the window, his wide-mouthed face apparently in the middle of a hearty laugh.

Driving home, I mused on the many advantages of being Tricki’s uncle. When he went to the seaside he sent me boxes of oak-smoked kippers; and when the tomatoes ripened in his green-house, he sent a pound or two every week. Tins of tobacco arrived regularly, sometimes with a photograph carrying a loving inscription.

But it was when the Christmas hamper arrived from Fortnum and Mason’s that I decided that I was on a really good thing which should be helped along a bit. Hitherto, I had merely rung up and thanked Mrs. Pumphrey for the gifts, and she had been rather cool, pointing out that it was Tricki who had sent the things and he was the one who should be thanked.

With the arrival of the hamper it came to me, blindingly, that I had been guilty of a grave error of tactics. I set myself to compose a letter to Tricki. Avoiding Siegfried’s sardonic eye, I thanked my doggy nephew for his Christmas gifts and for all his generosity in the past. I expressed my sincere hopes that the festive fare had not upset his delicate digestion and suggested that if he did experience any discomfort he should have recourse to the black powder his uncle always prescribed. A vague feeling of professional shame was easily swamped by floating visions of kippers, tomatoes and hampers. I addressed the envelope to Master Tricki Pumphrey, Barlby Grange and slipped it into the post box with only a slight feeling of guilt.

On my next visit, Mrs. Pumphrey drew me to one side. “Mr. Herriot,” she whispered, “Tricki adored your charming letter and he will keep it always, but he was very put out about one thing—you addressed it to Master Tricki and he does insist upon Mister. He was dreadfully affronted at first, quite beside himself, but when he saw it was from you he soon recovered his good temper. I can’t think why he should have these little prejudices. Perhaps it is because he is an only dog—I do think an only dog develops more prejudices than one from a large family.”

Entering Skeldale House was like returning to a colder world. Siegfried bumped into me in the passage. “Ah, who have we here? Why I do believe it’s dear Uncle Herriot. And what have you been doing, Uncle? Slaving away at Barlby Grange, I expect. Poor fellow, you must be tired out. Do you really think it’s worth it, working your fingers to the bone for another hamper?”

FOURTEEN

LOOKING BACK, I CAN scarcely believe we used to spend all those hours in making up medicines. But our drugs didn’t come to us in proprietary packages and before we could get out on the road we had to fill our cars with a wide variety of carefully compounded and largely useless remedies.

When Siegfried came upon me that morning I was holding a twelve-ounce bottle at eye level while I poured syrup of coccilana into it. Tristan was moodily mixing stomach powders with a mortar and pestle and he stepped up his speed of stroke when he saw his brother’s eye on him. He was surrounded by packets of the powder and, further along the bench, were orderly piles of pessaries which he had made by filling cellophane cylinders with boric acid.

Tristan looked industrious; his elbow jogged furiously as he ground away at the ammon carb and nux vomica. Siegfried smiled benevolently.

I smiled too. I felt the strain badly when the brothers were at variance, but I could see that this was going to be one of the happy mornings. There had been a distinct improvement in the atmosphere since Christmas when Tristan had slipped casually back to college and, apparently without having done any work, had re-sat and passed his exams. And there was something else about my boss today; he seemed to glow with inner satisfaction as though he knew for certain that something good was on the way. He came in and closed the door.

“I’ve got a bit of good news.”

I screwed the cork into the bottle. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense. Let’s have it.”

Siegfried looked from one of us to the other. He was almost smirking. “You remember that bloody awful shambles when Tristan took charge of the bills?”

His brother looked away and began to grind still faster, but Siegfried laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to do it again. In fact, you’ll never have to do it again because, from now on, the job will be done by an expert.” He paused and cleared his throat. “We’re going to have a secretary.”

As we stared blankly at him he went on. “Yes, I picked her myself and I consider she’s perfect.”

“Well, what’s she like?” I asked.

Siegfried pursed his lips. “It’s difficult to describe her. But just think—what do we want here? We don’t want some flighty young thing hanging about the place. We don’t want a pretty little blonde sitting behind that desk powdering her nose and making eyes at everybody.”

“We don’t?” Tristan interrupted, plainly puzzled.

“No, we don’t!” Siegfried rounded on him. “She’d be daydreaming about her boy friends half the time and just when we’d got her trained to our ways she’d be running off to get married.”